Two Trees, Two Leopards, Two Kills – Londolozi Blog

For four days, a quiet stretch of riverine woodland along the Maxabene became the focal point for the Nkoveni Female Leopard and her 20-month-old son. They had two impala carcasses hoisted in the canopy, and with ample food secured and no immediate threats in the area, they settled in. The pair moved between resting spots and the kills with the slow, steady rhythm that comes when leopards can feed without having to defend their meals.

Londolozi’s most viewed leopard and prolific mother. This gorgeous female has raised multiple cubs to independence.

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Both carcasses were stashed in a pair of trees that are, quite literally, joined at the trunk. A jackalberry and a leadwood have grown against one another over decades, their cambium layers eventually fusing, a process known as inosculation, or “marriage trees.” Instead of growing independently, the two now stand as a single structure, sharing physical support and, to some extent, resources. Trees like this often go unnoticed until something draws your attention to them — in this case, two leopards and two impala carcasses draped across their branches.

Inosculation occurs when two parts of two different trees grow together, either the branches or the trunks. The trees grow next to each other, and as a result of the wind moving them and the friction between them, it removes a layer of bark, exposing their cambium layers (the nutrient highway) that then fuse together as they try to heal the damaged area and new bark is formed over that section. The nutrients may also be shared between the two trees, and it is also said that if one dies, the other will die soon after.

When we first arrived that morning, only one carcass hung in the tree. By late afternoon, the young male appeared, dragging a second impala across the riverbed and hoisting it into the same intertwined trunks. Whether it was his mother or the young male who made the kill isn’t clear, but at his age, either is possible. Young males approaching independence often start hunting more actively, testing their abilities and occasionally matching their mothers’ success.

The Nkoveni Young Male, moving between the jackalberry and the leadwood trees, stares up at his mother with blood-stained paws from the shared impala kills.

The last surviving cub of a litter of three, he is on the cusp of independence.

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Over the next few days, their behaviour around the carcasses began to shift. They still shared the kills, feeding from both, but there were longer pauses before one would approach if the other was feeding. Snarls became more frequent, low growls rolled through the branches, and small standoffs played out over choice feeding spots. This kind of tension is normal at this stage. As independence nears, the mother begins to assert clearer boundaries, and the young male learns to navigate them, a gradual push toward self-reliance rather than a single clean break.

One would imagine this to not be the most comfortable way to rest in a tree; however, the Nkoveni Young Male seemed to think otherwise. He stayed like this for about 2 hours.

This sighting stood out not just for the abundance of food, but for the way it unfolded. Two trees, physically joined after decades of growth, became a temporary centre for a mother and son who, for just a little longer, remain connected themselves. His independence isn’t far off now. Soon, he’ll begin to spend more time on his own, then eventually move beyond this familiar stretch of woodland.

The Nkoveni Female snarls towards her son as he attempts to snuggle up to her side.

Encounters like this are rare. Not because double kills never happen, but because they align with a particular moment in a leopard’s life, a brief overlap between dependence and dispersal. It’s a quiet transition, and being able to watch it unfold over several days offered a clear glimpse of that shift.